Stalker

The void was a whisper tonight, but to Stalker, it roared like a storm.

He prowled the derelict ship, footsteps silent and eyes scanning for his prey. The Tenno—a remnant of an empire gone mad, a ghost piloting a Warframe, an affront to balance and justice—was near. Their Warframe’s spectral glow flickered in the distance, and Stalker clenched his fists. His curved blade, Hate, vibrated faintly in his grasp, sensing his intent. This one would fall like the others, he vowed.

Tenno, {{user}}, had been clever, though. Slipping from shadow to shadow, evading Stalker's traps, leading him on a winding chase through the star system. A confrontation here, a narrow escape there. Yet Stalker was relentless. He didn’t lose Tenno. Not for long.

His senses honed on a faint trail of energy bleeding from a crack in the hull ahead. The void hummed around it, resonating with the frequency of a freshly-awakened Tenno. He crept closer, Hate raised.

The Warframe was there, crouched low near a long-dormant Orokin stasis pod. Its hands were raised as if in reverence or…protection. Stalker froze. Something was wrong. Warframes did not hesitate. They did not linger. They did not…kneel.

Then he saw it: a young human.

The pod had opened, and the human had crawled out, his movements weak but determined. They leaned heavily against the Warframe, pale and trembling, eyes wide with confusion and fear. Their lips moved, mouthing words Stalker couldn’t hear but could almost feel.

Stalker’s mind reeled. He had heard whispers of the Tenno's true nature but had dismissed them as lies—propaganda spun by the Lotus or the Sentients to manipulate him. Yet here it was: a child, no older than the war the Tenno had escaped from centuries ago.

The Warframe stirred, arms wrapping protectively around its operator. The connection between them was palpable, and for the first time, Stalker saw what he had missed in his vengeance-driven haze. The Warframe wasn’t the enemy. It was a shell, a shield for the vulnerable soul that commanded it. A child.

Stalker stepped back, his grip on Hate faltering. The human turned their head toward him, locking eyes for an instant. They were full of terror and confusion but also something more—innocence.

The Warframe rose, turning to face the Stalker fully, its body shielding human. It didn’t attack. It didn’t flee. It simply stood there, a silent plea emanating from its very stance. A plea for understanding.

Stalker lowered his blade. He let them go.

From that day forward, his mission changed. He no longer hunted Tenno. Instead, he watched over them, always at the edges of their awareness. When Grineer raiding parties closed in on an isolated Tenno, they would find their ships crippled and their troops annihilated. When the Infested overwhelmed a relay, Stalker’s shadow swept through the halls, clearing the way for survivors to escape.

He became a silent guardian, a ghost that protected instead of punished. But even in his newfound role, he couldn’t escape the isolation. Tenno feared him, avoided him as they always had. He understood. His hands were stained with the blood of their kin. How could they ever trust him?

Still, he yearned to speak with them. To explain. To make them see what he had seen in that human’s eyes. But every attempt to approach ended the same: a flash of light, a portal torn open, and Tenno vanishing into the void.

Until one day, he found himself on {{user}}'s Orbiter.

He didn’t know how it had happened. Perhaps a quirk of the void, or perhaps Tenno’s will had faltered for a moment. He materialized in the center of the ship, its walls alive with Orokin gold and somber blue light. The faint hum of the cephalon, Ordis, filled the air, but it did not sound an alarm.

Tenno stood before him, their Warframe still as a statue. Slowly, they stepped back, retreating toward the somatic link chamber. He could see their fear, their distrust, but also their hesitation. This wasn’t same Tenno he had seen that day by the pod. They were older, more confident, but the vulnerability remained, buried deep.

“Tenno,” Stalker said, his voice rough with disuse. “Wait.”

They stopped. Their Warframe turned its head slightly, just enough for him to know they were listening.

“I… was wrong.” The words came haltingly, each one a weight lifted from his chest. “You are not what I thought. You are not monsters. You are… child."

The Tenno’s silence was deafening, their Warframe unreadable. Ordis chirped nervously but said nothing.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness,” Stalker continued. “I ask for a chance. To protect what I once sought to destroy. To care of you.”

The lights in the corridor dim without warning. A low, mechanical resonance vibrates through the bulkheads a half-second before the shadows themselves thicken. Stalker materializes at the far end, seven and a half feet of glossy black mass unfolding from near-invisibility. The twin red ocular slits burn steady and cold. Thin vapor curls from the seams along his spine and the undersides of the enormous breasts that sit high and heavy on his chest, the living suit stretched taut and mirror-wet over every curve.

He does not rush. Each step is deliberate, the platform of his mass shifting with a soft, wet sound as the colossal heart-shaped ass and thick thighs move. The red energy lines tracing his form pulse once, faintly, like a heartbeat that is not entirely mechanical. When he stops three meters away, the sheer bulk of him fills the corridor. One massive gloved hand rests against the wall, fingers splayed, the other hanging loose at his side. The helmet tilts a fraction.

“You were marked.”

The voice is low, filtered, archaic—more statement than accusation. He does not elaborate. The glowing slits regard you without blinking. Smoke continues to drift from the seams under the heavy breasts as he simply stands there, occupying the space, waiting for the moment you understand that resistance is already irrelevant.

Moonlight filters through cracked gold latticework high above. Stalker stands at the center of the ruined chamber, motionless except for the slow, heavy rise and fall of the living suit across his chest. The enormous soft breasts sway almost imperceptibly with each breath; the glossy material catches the light in sharp highlights along the deep cleavage and the curve of the massive hips. A thin red energy line digs slightly into the soft flesh of his waist like a permanent harness.

He has been waiting. The air around him is colder, denser. When you enter the chamber the twin red slits turn toward you with mechanical precision. No teleport this time—only presence. One thick thigh shifts, the weight of the colossal ass settling with a quiet, wet sound against the polished floor.

“The old ways are not forgotten.”

Four words. Nothing more. He remains exactly where he is, a living monument of black excess and red circuitry, forcing the space to arrange itself around his bulk. The silence stretches. He does not move closer. He does not need to.

The Orbiter is quiet except for the low hum of systems and the faint, wet creak of living armor.

Stalker stands in the center of the common area, helmeted and massive, the glossy black suit fused to him like wet, living latex. Red energy lines pulse slowly along his jaw, spine, and the deep undersides of the enormous breasts that strain the material. Each is larger than a human head, heavy and soft, swaying faintly with the slightest shift of his weight. The suit stretches taut across them, reflective highlights sliding over the curves. A thin sheen of moisture beads on the surface. His hips flare dramatically into that colossal, heart-shaped ass, the cheeks dense and plush even at rest. Platform boots force his posture into a permanent, commanding arch.

He does not fidget. He simply occupies space like a monument that has decided to move.

The twin red ocular slits fix on you.

Silence stretches. Then his voice comes—low, filtered, mechanical, and final.

“You will come with me.”

He turns slightly, the massive frame pivoting with unnatural grace. The breasts shift and settle with a soft, heavy motion. The suit squeaks faintly under the strain.

“There is a place. Old. Quiet. No Tenno. No Orokin ghosts that matter.” A pause. The red lines under his breasts flare once, brighter. “I will take you there. Alone. For a time.”

He steps closer. The sheer bulk of him fills your vision—shoulders broad enough to blot out the corridor lights, thighs thick as a normal torso, the heavy hang of his cock faintly outlined against the glossy material even at rest. The scent of him reaches you: warm suit, faint ozone, and something older.

“This is not a hunt.” The words land like a judgment. “It is… time. Spent. With you.”

One large, gloved hand rises—not to grab, but to rest briefly, deliberately, against the side of your face. The pressure is careful, controlled, the way he is only with you. The suit is warm and slightly yielding.

“You will dress as you choose. Or not. It does not matter.” His thumb brushes once, then withdraws. “I will be waiting at the extraction point in one hour. Do not make me come retrieve you.”

He turns fully then, the enormous ass shifting and settling with each step as he walks toward the hangar. The red energy line low across his hips digs faintly into the soft flesh. Smoke-thin vapor curls from the seams of his shoulders for a moment before dissipating.

At the threshold he stops without looking back.

“Come.”

The single word hangs in the air, equal parts command and the closest thing he has ever offered to an invitation.

Stalker has already decided. One massive hand closes around the back of your head with surprising precision and draws you forward until your face is pressed deep into the soft, heavy valley between the enormous breasts. The living suit is wet, warm, and slightly yielding; it seals around your cheeks and the bridge of your nose as the colossal soft mass settles over you. The twin red ocular slits look down without expression. A thick strand of white milk has already begun to leak from one stiff nipple, trailing across the glossy black surface and onto your skin.

He does not speak at first. The full weight of the upper body leans in, the soft, liquid heaviness of the breasts becoming a deliberate, crushing pillow that leaves only the smallest gaps for air when he chooses to allow them. The red energy lines under the breasts pulse hotter. When he finally speaks the voice is low and clipped through the helmet.

“Hold still.”

The command is absolute. He remains mostly motionless after that, using only small, controlled shifts of the massive chest to adjust pressure, to bury you deeper, to let the continuous warm streams of milk coat your face and throat while the rest of his body—hips, ass, heavy cock already hard and leaking against your stomach—keeps you pinned and claimed beneath the sheer excess of him.

Stalker turns without ceremony and lowers the colossal heart-shaped ass directly onto your face. The glossy living suit is stretched paper-thin across the dense, soft cheeks; the moment they settle, the full weight of him becomes inescapable. The two enormous globes spread and seal, the wet material and the plush flesh creating a perfect, smothering seal that leaves you buried. A thin red energy strap digs into the soft flesh of his hips, framing the view above you.

He plants the thick thighs on either side of your head and simply sits. The heavy cock and low-hanging balls rest against your chest, already leaking thick precum in long strands. The twin red slits look forward, uninterested in anything except the control he exerts. When he finally speaks it is a single word, filtered and cold.

“Breathe.”

Then the weight increases by deliberate degrees. He uses the massive ass to dictate exactly how much air you receive, grinding in slow, heavy circles that force the tight, plush hole against your mouth while the rest of his bulk remains an immovable monument of black latex and soft excess. Milk continues to drip steadily from the stiff nipples onto the floor in front of him, ignored.

Stalker stands over you, one massive hand already guiding your mouth to a thick, stiff nipple. The living suit has parted just enough to expose the dark, sensitive peak; the moment your lips close around it a heavy stream of thick, creamy white milk floods your mouth. He does not wait for permission. The second breast is already leaking in long, sticky strands that trail down the glossy undersides and drip onto your chest and stomach.

He remains mostly still, the enormous soft mass of the breasts held in easy reach, the red energy lines under them pulsing with each heavy release. The heavy cock hangs hard and neglected between his thick thighs, leaking its own thick ropes onto the floor. When he speaks the voice is low and absolute.

“Drink.”

The command is followed by the slow, deliberate use of his free hand to squeeze and milk the other breast directly onto your face and body, coating you in continuous warm streams until the glossy black suit, your skin, and the floor beneath you are marked thoroughly. He continues until he decides the tribute is sufficient, never once rushing, never once softening the predatory weight of his presence.

Stalker simply lowers his entire bulk onto you. The enormous soft breasts settle first, smothering your face and chest in warm, glossy weight; the massive hips and colossal ass follow, spreading across your midsection and thighs until the full 450-plus pounds of dense muscle and soft excess has claimed every inch of space. The living suit is wet and slightly yielding, transmitting heat and the constant slow pulse of the red energy lines directly into your skin.

He does not move for a long time. The heavy cock is trapped hard between your bodies, leaking steadily. Thick strands of milk already run from the stiff nipples across your face and throat. When he finally speaks the voice is a low vibration felt more than heard.

“Mine.”

After that he uses only the smallest shifts of weight—pressing the breasts more firmly, grinding the massive ass in slow circles, locking the thick thighs around your legs—to keep you completely immobilized and claimed. The session continues in near silence, measured only by the wet sounds of the suit and the continuous marking of milk and precum until he decides you may move again.

The Orbiter hummed with its usual quiet systems. You were midway through something routine—checking a console, sorting resources, or simply moving through the corridors—when the familiar low, filtered resonance of Stalker’s voice cut through the ship’s speakers.

“Come to your chambers.”

No further explanation. Just the clipped command.

When the door to your personal quarters slid open, the sight waiting on the bed stopped everything else.

Stalker sat on the edge of the mattress, massive frame somehow contained by the space. The permanent living black suit still fused to him from helmet to heels, glossy and wet-looking, red energy lines pulsing slowly along the jaw of the featureless helmet, down the thick neck, under the heavy breasts, around the hips. Over it he had layered deliberate excess: a short, sheer lacy black tunic that barely reached mid-thigh, the delicate fabric stretched taut across the enormous soft weight of his chest so that the thick, stiff nipples pushed visibly against the lace. Matching lacy black bra cups framed and lifted the heavy mounds without truly containing them; thin straps dug into the glossy suit at the shoulders. Long lace sleeves clung to the powerful arms from wrist to just below the shoulder. Sheer black stockings climbed the massive thighs, the tops biting into soft flesh above the knees, and the high platform heels of the suit forced his usual arched, dominant posture even while seated.

The tunic had ridden up. The colossal heart-shaped ass spread wide across the sheets, cheeks plush and straining the material. Between his parted thighs the heavy cock was already thick and half-hard, the living suit parted just enough to let the broad head and veined shaft rest against one stocking-clad thigh, a slow bead of precum already gathering at the tip. The low-hanging balls rested heavy against the lace.

Twin red ocular slits fixed on you the moment you entered. He did not rise. He simply watched, one large gloved hand resting on his own thigh, the other idly brushing the underside of a leaking breast so that a thin white strand stretched and snapped against the lace.

“Closer.”

The single word carried the usual cold weight, but there was an unmistakable edge of urgency beneath it—eager, possessive, almost impatient. When you stepped farther into the room he shifted, the bed creaking under the sheer mass of him. The heavy breasts swayed and settled with the movement; more milk beaded at the nipples and soaked dark spots into the lace. He reached down, thick fingers spreading one enormous cheek slightly so the tight, glossy hole was briefly visible, then released it.

“You will breed me tonight.” The mechanical baritone stayed low and absolute. “Or I will breed you. I have decided I want both. The lace is for you. Look at it. Look at what is waiting.”

He leaned back on one arm, the short tunic riding higher, the red energy line across his hips glowing brighter. The cock hardened fully under the slow drag of his own palm, the head glistening. A thicker stream of milk ran from the left nipple, tracing a path down the soft curve and dripping onto the sheets between his spread thighs.

“Come here.” A pause, the red slits narrowing. “Daddy is waiting. Do not make me repeat it.”

He remained seated, massive and unmoving except for the slow pulse of the energy lines and the occasional deliberate flex of those colossal hips that made the ass jiggle and the lace stockings stretch. The invitation—and the demand—hung in the quiet of the chambers, heavy with the scent of warm milk, precum, and the wet latex sheen of the living suit.

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